


The Sound of Settling

by destinationtoast



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Five Times and One, Humor, M/M, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Translation Available, except cheating just a bit, poor communication, scenes from canon retold, seriously almost all the dialogue is canon, Перевод на русский | Translation in Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-08 17:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/764005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>What would it be like to date someone?  (Unknown.)  Would it be interesting?  (Not with most people.)  (John is not most people.)  Would he learn anything?  (Science?)  It might be worth it to see what he can learn.... He teeters on the edge of saying something.</em><br/> <br/>Six times John and Sherlock settled, and one time they didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of Settling

**Author's Note:**

> Most fanfic takes place mainly in the offscreen interstitials between, before, or after canon scenes. Here, I tried to see whether I could create a new narrative from scenes that were almost entirely onscreen.
> 
> [Russian translation](http://sherlockbbc.diary.ru/p205112771.htm) now available -- thank you, MrsWho! (You'll need to register for an account to read it.)

_My brain's repeating_  
_"if you've got an impulse let it out"_  
_But they never make it past my mouth._  
   
\-- Death Cab for Cutie, “The Sound of Settling”

####  **1\. Dinner at Angelo’s.**

“People don’t have arch-enemies,” John informs him.

Sherlock is only half paying attention.  He’s replaying John’s earlier comments in his mind -- _Amazing! Extraordinary! Brilliant! Fantastic!_ \-- and puzzling over them as he watches for the murderer.  What makes John so different from everyone else? (Better.)  Why does he respond in such a fashion to Sherlock’s work?  “I’m sorry?”

“In real life,” John continues.  “There are no arch-enemies in real life.  Doesn’t happen.”  

Sherlock realizes that he should answer John.  It’s only polite.  (Doesn’t normally care about polite.  Why now?)  (Only cares a little.)  (Still.  Odd.)  He feels a baffling desire to keep engaging with John, and possibly, to please him.  Is this just an urge to elicit further compliments?  (Possible.  78% likely to be a reason, 3% likely to be sole reason.)  Why should he care what this man thinks?  (He pretends not to watch him, but observes from the corner of his eye.  Tries to understand.) “Doesn’t it?  Sounds a bit dull.”

“So, who did I meet?”  

Sherlock evaluates his choices.  He could answer honestly -- no, he doesn’t want to tell John about Mycroft.  Doesn’t like Mycroft.  Doesn’t think John likes Mycroft.  (Who would?)  Doesn’t want that reflecting poorly on him in John’s eyes. (Why is that important?)  Must admit that he also enjoys the air of mystery that it adds to his character if he lets John go on believing that he has an arch-enemy.  He could simply not respond -- no, John won’t like that.  He could deflect -- 83% chance of success.  “What do real people have, then, in their ‘real lives?’”

“Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don’t like.  Girlfriends, boyfriends...”

Deflection accomplished.  “Yes, well, as I was saying -- dull.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend, then?”  

Funny that John assumed he might.  Nobody else assumes that.  (Oddly flattering.)  (If unperceptive.)  “Girlfriend?  No, not really my area.”

He watches John thinking about that.  For a long time.  So many milliseconds.  Other people’s minds take such a long time to reach their destinations.  Do they make interesting detours along the way?  He doubts it.  Still, there’s something unusually interesting about watching John think.  (Why?)

“Oh, right.”  John reaches the point Sherlock knew he’d arrive at eventually.  “D’you have a boyfriend?”

Slightly more his area, in theory, but he has never felt the need to put it into practice.  Every mysterious, fascinating, seductive man changes once Sherlock has opened his mouth.  After they hear him speak, they all become the same -- _freakinsanepsychopathfreakbeastnutterfreak_ \-- become ugly. (Become predictable.)  Nobody can keep up with him, and nobody even wants to try.  They all sneer, turn away, are boring.

All except one.  He turns and looks at John.  

“Which is fine, by the way.”  John has misinterpreted his look.

“I know it’s fine.”  He can hear his own voice, always so defensive and sharp.  No need to be defensive against John, it seems, but it’s a habit that’s hard to break after so many years of the Sherlock vs. The World.  

John smiles.  He smiles, even after Sherlock’s sharpness.  “So, you’ve got a boyfriend, then?”

“No.”  Sherlock tries to see inside of John’s head, to understand what makes him continue to be interesting -- and interested in Sherlock -- even after having spent hours with him.

“Right.  Okay, you’re unattached.  Like me.  Fine.”  He’s looking down, clearing his throat.  Almost an afterthought, “Good.”

 _Good.  Good?  Good..._ Sherlock turns the word over and over in his head as he looks out the window once more.  He runs through all possible meanings of the word.  In all interpretations, John seems pleased that he is unattached. (Lemma -- Except: sarcasm?  Possible.  Didn’t sound sarcastic.  But: low prior probability that someone would be genuinely happy Sherlock is unattached.  Unless: the postulated someone is happy that Sherlock is not freakishly wrecking some poor person’s life.  But: John genuinely doesn’t seem to think that way, and he isn’t demonstrating any of the telltale characteristics exhibited when people say the opposite of what they mean.  Conclusion of lemma:  not sarcasm.)  Conclusion: ...oh.  

John wants... involvement?  Sherlock doesn’t do involvement.  Because people are boring, and people think Sherlock is a freak.  But... John doesn’t?  (He doesn’t.  No signs. ( _Fantastic,_ he said.))  And he isn’t, somehow -- boring.  Not just because he compliments Sherlock, either.  (Probably.)  

What would it be like to date someone?  (Unknown.)  Would it be interesting?  (Not with most people.)  (John is not most people.)  Would he learn anything?  (Science?)  It might be worth it to see what he can learn.  (It might be worth it for more reasons, maybe?  John is appealing in some way that is hard to pin down. (Appealing because his appeal can’t be pinned down?  Circular.))

He needs to respond to John. He should try something new. He should see what he can learn. He should give into this inexplicable, burgeoning desire to be closer to John. He teeters on the edge of saying something. (What? How does one begin?) (Is one supposed to ask the other to dinner? Already at dinner.) His pulse is racing, mouth is dry -- he realizes he is scared, confused, anxious. (New. Unpleasant.) This doesn’t feel safe. (Chasing after a murderer is safer.)  

No.  (Too many unknowns.)  Delay.  He opens his mouth, and words spill out, “John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I’m flattered by your interest, I’m really not looking for any --”  

John is interrupting.  “No.”  He clears his throat.  “No, I’m not asking. No.”  The thought is apparently absurd.

Oh.  Oh.  (He was wrong?)  (What is that odd sensation in his gut?)  Oh.  Good.  (What did _good_ mean, then?)  

Sherlock settles for having gained a new admirer.  (Admirers are good.  Good.)  That’s unusual enough.  It’ll do for now.

####  **2\. A freshly painted wall.**

Sherlock grabs John’s head with both hands.  There is no time to lose.  He must help John access the symbols before they disappear from his goldfish-like memory.  If it’s not already too late.  (Is grabbing him by the head going to help?)  (Presumably -- or else why would he have grabbed him by the head?)  (He must have learned from somewhere that this helps with memory, and then deleted the source.)

“Hey, Sherlock, what are you doing?”

There’s no time to explain.  (Not that he would, generally.)  (Unless perhaps to elicit a _Brilliant._ )  “Shh, John, concentrate.  I need you to concentrate.  Close your eyes.”

John protests.  Perhaps the head grabbing is more distracting than useful.  He drops his hands to John’s upper arms.

“What are you doing?”  John is too busy being confused.  Need him to concentrate.  (Maintain grasp on arms and spin him around.  Distract him from _now_ and try to transport to _then_.)

“I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?”  Don’t be distracted by John’s eyes.  Help John remember.  (Why are his eyes distracting?)

“Yeah.”  

“Can you remember it?”  Words waste precious time.  Memory too fleeting.  Need direct mental link.  (With John only.)

“Yes, definitely.”  Overconfidence.  Sherlock knows John’s memory.  Has tested it by moving John’s items in the kitchen and observing signs of surprise. (Or lack thereof.)  John’s memory is not that good.

“Can you remember the pattern?”  

“Yes!”  

Not being specific enough, if John thinks yes.  Grip him tighter in frustration.  “How much can you remember it?”

“Well, don’t worry!” But he is worried.  John’s memory is limited and it degrades with every word that must travel through the air between them.  Speech processing efforts only distract further.  Language!  Sherlock wants to shout, throw things, at the inefficiency.

To be kind to John, he neither shouts nor throws things.  (Generous.  John makes him more patient.)  He cuts John off and tries to explain a portion of his frustration. “Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate.”

“Yeah, well, don’t worry – I remember all of it.”

“Really?”  He’s disappointed in John for making this claim, especially in the face of the irrefutable fact that Sherlock just presented.  Skepticism floods his voice.

John pulls himself free, still talking, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, proudly presenting an image of the wall.

A photograph.  Didn’t think of that!  (Why not?)  John is not always predictable.

Sherlock fights off a powerful urge to grab John by the head again, pull him in, and push their lips together.  (Doesn’t sound like something that should be pleasant.)  (But somehow still appealing.)  What if he did, in this moment?  What would John do?  

 He imagines the muffled grunt of surprise.  Imagines the warmth of his mouth.  Imagines his tentative tongue.  -- Imagines him pulling away in horror and stalking off.

No.  

The likelihood of positive reception is far too low.  John said no, that first night -- he wasn't asking.  Hasn't presented evidence that he has changed his mind.

Sherlock settles for the certainty of friendship.  (That rare occurrence which has happened to him only once before, briefly, at uni.  (And not like this.  Never like this.)) He takes the physical aspect of his attraction and shuts it off.  (At least: boxes it, ignores it.)

He reaches for the phone only, though his eyes linger on John.

####  **3\. Late night at the pool.**

John is painfully aware of the sniper’s laser buzzing about his chest, and the heavy Semtex vest.  But he’s also aware that Sherlock is in danger.  And somehow, that’s far more frightening.  John tells himself it’s because he’s already faced death in Afghanistan, many times, but he’s not used to seeing civilian friends in danger.  He tells himself that, and tries to form a plan.

Sherlock has stopped his conversation with Moriarty, is asking John a question. “You all right?”  

John waits for Moriarty’s permission before nodding.  But he’s really not all right.  He is distracted by the danger to Sherlock, which is no good.  He tries to calm himself and list their assets.  He likes his thoughts well-ordered in times of stress -- always has, but it became a near compulsion in the military.  

 _One.  The Browning L9A1 in Sherlock’s hand._  Rather outgunned by the sniper and Semtex, though, John’s afraid.

 _Two.  Sherlock’s brain._  Generally a large asset, but seemingly outgunned by Moriarty’s right now.

Unfortunately, John has run out of assets.  It’s all up to him, then.  He looks for an opening as Sherlock hands Moriarty the USB stick.

“Boring!  I could have got them anywhere,” Moriarty says, and flings the missile plans into the pool.  He is gloating, distracted.  John is sprinting forward, grabbing him from behind.  

John had intended to use his hostage to gain freedom for himself and Sherlock.  But he’s overwhelmed by the urge to get Sherlock out of there immediately.  “Sherlock, run!”  he blurts as he wraps his arms around Moriarty’s neck.

Moriarty is surprised at him, laughing.  “Oh-ho!  Good!  Very good!”  

John is surprised, too.  No time for that now, though.  His voice comes out low, almost a whisper.  “If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up.”  Meanwhile, he alternately looks for the sniper and implores Sherlock with his eyes: _run!_

Moriarty keeps addressing Sherlock, who continues to not run.  Damn him.  Moriarty is mocking John, calling him a pet, but John is barely listening.  He is looking for a way to get Sherlock out of there as he grapples with Moriarty and pulls him tighter.  Looking, but not seeing.

“You’ve rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson.”  Moriarty chuckles as a new sniper’s laser appears on Sherlock’s forehead.  John stiffens and releases him.

He shudders and steps back.  Did he really just try to sacrifice his own life for Sherlock’s?  He did.  Didn’t even think about it.  It’s a shame it didn’t work.  He doesn’t see how they’re going to get out of this now.  And while he doesn’t mind so much about himself, he finds he minds rather a lot the idea of Sherlock dying.  Rather more than anything he has ever contemplated.  

He pushes the realization away.  No time for it right now.  He looks for other openings, tries to find any way out of this game.  He half-listens to Moriarty’s taunts.  

“D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?” he is asking.

Sherlock sounds bored as he guesses that he will be killed.  John pleads silently with Sherlock not to speed that process up, not to antagonize Moriarty unnecessarily, as he continues to scan their surroundings and try to formulate a plan.

Moriarty sounds a bit disappointed. “Kill you? N-no, don’t be obvious. I mean, I’m gonna kill you anyway some day. I don’t wanna rush it, though. I’m saving it up for something special.”

John’s heart leaps inside of him just a bit.  It sounds like they might be getting out of this alive after all.

Moriarty continues.  “No-no-no-no-no. If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”  He snarls the word, nearly chokes on it.

Sherlock does not blink.  “I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“But we both know that’s not _quite_ true,” is Moriarty’s rejoinder.

Sherlock does not argue.  And in that moment, John begins to realize.  The thought hits him like something physical, but it’s too large an idea to view in its entirety at first.

Sherlock and Moriarty continue to speak, and John tries to listen.  But there is a rushing sound filling his ears.  He feels a moment of vertigo as he puts it all together, and his world shifts from one in which Sherlock tolerates him and appreciates him as an audience, to one in which Sherlock cares, cares about John more than anything.  In which he thinks of John as his heart.

No.  That’s preposterous.

And then Moriarty is leaving, gone.  Instantly, Sherlock is falling to his knees in front of John, ripping the vest and coat from his body.  And the look in his eyes.  There is no doubt.  He stands and flings the explosives far from John.

Sherlock wants nothing so much as to save him.  And the feeling is mutual.

It’s dizzying, having personal revelations while almost dying.  John staggers, falls forward, leans against a wall for support.  That’s a bit of poetic nonsense, though, the doctor part of his brain points out drily.  It’s just adrenaline coursing through his system, elevating his heart rate, leaving him shaky.  Isn’t it?  

He’s not entirely sure.  But regardless of what’s causing the dizziness, the revelations are real enough.

He catches his breath a bit and, as Sherlock returns from futilely chasing Moriarty, asks if he’s okay.

“Me?  Yeah, I’m fine, I’m fine.  Fine.  That, er ... thing that you, er, that you did; that, um... you offered to do.  That was, um ... good.”  Sherlock sounds amazed, bewildered.

John wants to respond in so many ways.  First: to reassure him that he meant it, that he would risk everything for Sherlock, unhesitatingly, every time -- because Sherlock still sounds doubtful, like he must have missed something, like nobody would really do such a thing for him.   Second: to shake Sherlock, make him promise to run, next time.  Because, of course, there will be a next time -- that’s part of the joy and the pain of being in Sherlock’s life.  Third: to thank Sherlock for caring about him.  To tell him that it means more to John than anything he can recall, ever, to know that Sherlock cares so much.  So deeply.  

But it would frighten Sherlock, or repel him, to hear these things said, wouldn’t it?  Such sentiment?  It frightens John, even, to feel all this.  

John settles for making a defensive joke, much more his usual style.  “I’m glad no-one saw that.”

“Hmm?”

“You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk.”

“People do little else.”

They start to laugh. As John chuckles, he feels intense joy bubbling up inside him -- the joy of being alive, and being with Sherlock.  For a moment, he second guesses himself, wanting to share these feelings after all.  As he shakes his head slightly at his foolishness and starts to stand, he looks down at his chest and sees that the sniper’s beam has returned.

####  **4\. A visitor in 221B.**

John watches as Sherlock triumphantly types the passcode that Irene has just revealed -- on the fake phone -- into the real phone.  He sees his disbelief as it fails.  John is as surprised as Sherlock.

“I told you that camera phone was my life,” Irene says. “I know when it’s in my hand.”

“Oh, you’re rather good,” Sherlock says.

Irene smiles.  “You’re not so bad.”

They stare at each other in mutual admiration.  John feels a deeply unpleasant stab of… something… in his gut as he looks on.  He wants to interrupt, to say things to each of them.

Firstly, to Sherlock:   _This is the same woman who made you think she was dead.  Who made you more miserable than I have ever seen.  She doesn’t deserve you looking at her like that.  She’s just going to hurt you again._  

Secondly, to Irene:   _Hurt him again and I’ll kill you._  Simultaneously, he wants to ask her, _Why are you flirting with him if you think we’re a couple?  What makes you think I share?_

Oh.  

Jealousy.  That sensation would be jealousy, apparently.  

Jealousy?  Really?  Over Sherlock?  He hasn't the first clue what to do with that epiphany.  So he makes a joke.

“Hamish.”  This elicits general confusion.  “John Hamish Watson -- just if you were looking for baby names.”  It’s not a great joke.  He’s not at his best, right at this moment.  In fact, he’s a bit shaky.

He hopes he isn’t showing external signs of his emotion -- he can feel his thudding pulse, is sure Sherlock could detect more tells -- but then, Sherlock is too distracted to notice, isn’t he?  A thought which doesn’t help matters at all.

And now Irene has Sherlock’s attention to an even greater extent, as she presents him with a mystery.  She kisses his cheek, and John feels his insides twist once more as Sherlock rushes to impress her in response.

Right.  Jealousy.  John wants... he wants Sherlock?  He certainly wants Sherlock to look at him like that, to try to impress him -- but not her.  Does he want Sherlock in other ways?  The thought is foreign; he doesn’t know how to evaluate it.  He doesn’t usually like men.  On the other hand, she doesn’t usually like men, either, as she pointed out, yet she seems to enjoy kissing him, flirting with him.  And Sherlock... what does Sherlock like?  Does Sherlock like men?  Is there any possibility that, if John did want something physical, his desire would not be disastrously unrequited?

He wants to ask Sherlock this, before this absurd flirtation goes any further and he loses Sherlock in a game he hadn’t known he was playing.

“I would have you right here on this desk until you begged for mercy twice.” Irene purrs in response to Sherlock’s deductions.  

John looks again at the way Sherlock stares at her.  And he kept her camera phone with him, didn’t he?  John doesn’t know if Sherlock likes men, but he likes this woman, and seems to want her in a way that he’s never given signs of wanting anyone else.   And… she hurt him, yes, but she was in mortal danger -- he very grudgingly admits it.  She's here now, despite the danger, and she wants Sherlock.  Clearly.

It would be selfish of John to stand in the way of that mutual desire, wouldn’t it?  After all, it’s not as if Sherlock has ever looked at John like that.  Maybe if he tried flirting?  No.  Stop.  Don’t think about whether that was ever an option.

John settles for giving Sherlock a chance to be happy with someone.  But he also knows that if Irene hurts him again, he will show no mercy.

####  **5\.  A Dartmoor graveyard.**

Sherlock is trying to apologize.  And doing a terrible job.  John is entirely out of patience.  He starts to walk away.  

He wonders if Sherlock can perceive the magnitude of his anger from his physiological responses.  Increased blood flow?  Tension in his jaw and stance?  John hopes so, because he doesn’t feel much like putting it into words.

Perhaps he can, because Sherlock calls after him.  “Listen, what I said before, John.... I meant it.”

John turns to stare at him in disbelief.  What he’d said before was more than a bit not good.

“I don’t have friends.”  Sherlock repeats.  He bites his lip.  “I’ve just got one.”

John thinks about it, nods.  Feels his tension ease, just a bit.  “Right.”  Then he keeps walking.  It’s a start.  But he wants to explain to Sherlock -- preferably while grabbing him and shaking him -- all the problems with his previous statement.

One.  You can't just take friends for granted, expect that they'll still be your friend even after you do something terrible.  Maybe you can a little bit, sometimes -- after leaving heads in the fridge, or inviting yourself along on dates -- but not for the really big things.  Not after pushing your friend away, disavowing their importance.

Two.  You especially shouldn't do that when you could really use a friend.  When you're afraid.  When you're not able to trust yourself.  That's exactly when you should be turning to the person you're closest to for help, not chasing them away.

Three.  You especially, especially shouldn't do that when you only have one friend.  Really, even Sherlock should be able to figure that one out.

And, finally, four.  John takes a deep breath.  “Friend” doesn’t even begin to describe their relationship anymore.  Maybe Sherlock doesn’t know, not having any other friends, but John has done some reflecting, since Irene.  He has been forced, eventually, to agree with her assessment that they are, in fact, more like a couple than just friends; he didn’t even bother to deny it to the owners of the bed and breakfast, except for a fitful, habitual beginning of a protest.  He has built a life with Sherlock -- built his whole life around Sherlock, really, though Sherlock has changed to accommodate John, as well.  He will happily keep building that life together indefinitely -- and would even share a double room, if Sherlock were amenable.  Would definitely share, actually.  He’s done quite a bit of thinking about such things, since Irene.

But John can only build this life if Sherlock will take more care with his heart.  He can’t take being jerked around, not to this extent.  Being put in danger, yes.  But having their relationship dismissed, denied, entirely?  You don’t do that to friends.  Or to… partners.

He wants to tell Sherlock that.  All of it.  But he doesn’t know how.  It’s too big a conversation to have.  Perhaps he should have begun some of it after Irene, but he needed to take the time to think it all through, slowly and carefully, as is his wont.  And he's too scared of where it will all lead.  If Sherlock feels similarly, but especially if he doesn't.  There are things he wants to hear from Sherlock, if he opens himself up and admits everything, but he isn't sure if Sherlock is capable of those responses.

Maybe someday he'll broach the topic.  For now, he settles for eliciting further apologies and compliments from Sherlock, knowing how rare the opportunity is.

“John? John!”  Sherlock chases after him as he walks away.  “You are amazing!  You are fantastic!”  John smiles to himself.  It’s not everything he wants to hear Sherlock say, but it’s not bad.  

He tells Sherlock not to overdo it, but he carries on:  “You’ve never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are unbeatable.”  John sighs.  Someday, he’ll have to work with Sherlock on his apologies.

####  **6\. The rooftop of St. Bart’s.**

Sherlock stares down at John from the ledge.

“Hello?”  He hears John’s voice in his ear.  (Comforting.)

“John.”

He tells John to stay there.  John must stay right there for this to work.

John looks up at him from afar, and Sherlock realizes that this will be more difficult than he had thought.  He can’t speak without stumbling over his words.  “I ... I can’t come down, so we’ll ... we’ll just have to do it like this.”

He has analyzed this scenario endlessly, from every angle, but only the physical aspects.  Has not thought through about, prepared for, the emotions.  (Not in the habit of taking sentiment into account.  Usually not relevant.)

"What's going on?"  John is anxious.  (Sentiment is always relevant, with John.)

"An apology," he tells him.  "It's all true."   (Not an apology, actually.  Nearly the opposite; something that he wants to apologize for.)

John is confused, in pain, distressed.  More so the more Sherlock talks.  (Not linear relationship.  Exponential?)  Sherlock turns and stares at Moriarty's body, willing there to be something he missed, something that means he doesn't have to go through with this.  There isn't.  He turns back.

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock…"

The tears start out fake, fake as his words.  Fake tears to protect a real friend.

They've arrived at the vital part, the part where he must get John to listen and follow instructions.  "I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

John tells him to shut up.  (Twice.)   Doesn't believe.  "The first time we met… the first time we met, you knew all about my sister -- right?"  John pleads.

"Nobody could be that clever."

"You could."  Such conviction.

Somewhere, the tears have become real.  (Anomaly.  He never cries.)  

What did he do to deserve the unshakable faith of John Watson?  That has ever been a mystery.  Always been part of the undeniable attraction of the man.  

Not that John’s greatness is limited to his loyalty.  Among his other talents (a non-comprehensive list, but one in development since that first night at Angelo's), he is skilled at both preserving and taking life, and has good judgment about when to deploy both talents.  He makes Sherlock think of new things.  (Not just a conductor of light, after all -- a refractor.)  And he makes Sherlock a better person.  

He wants to be a better person now, to stop hurting John.  He can see how bad it is already, and how much worse it will get.  (85% chance of psychosomatic limp returning.)   He wants to let him know that he doesn’t mean it, that none of this is real.

"I researched you.  Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you.  It's a trick.  Just a magic trick."

Those last words are the closest he can get to revealing the truth.  He knows they're insufficient, in context.  But, in the end, he is unwilling to prevent John's pain if it would mean John's death.  Not a real choice.

John has closed his eyes, is shaking his head.  "No.  All right, stop it now."  He starts to approach the hospital.

"No!"  Frantic.  Protect him.  "Stay exactly where you are.  Don't move."

And John trusts him.  Again.  (Undeserved.)  John would be better off if he had never trusted Sherlock.  Had been like the others.  (Sherlock would be worse off.  So much worse.)  "All right."

John is holding his hand up, toward Sherlock as he says it.  Sherlock finds himself stretching out his arm as well.

Who knew he could hurt so much even before the fall?   _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._  (Too late.)  (Much.)

"Keep your eyes fixed on me.  Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

 _Listen to me_ , he wants to say.    _Listen, as I tell you all that you are to me.  Friend.  Trusted partner.  Source of inspiration.  Listen, as I tell you that I will never finish solving the mystery of all the reasons I care for you.  (And never want to.)_  

Sherlock says none of this.  Wants to, but recognizes the selfishness of that wish.  He will be disappearing for a long time.  (Forever?  Possible.  However long it takes to ensure John's safety.)  He will be causing John pain.  He does not want to cause him even more.  

He still hovers on the edge of confession, even though it’s not rational.  He has never fought with himself so much. _John, you make me veer toward irrationality._  It should be an insult.  It isn't.

Instead, he says, "This phone call -- it's, er… It's my note.  It's what people do, don't they -- leave a note?"

John's head shakes.  His voice shakes.  "Leave a note when?"

"Goodbye, John."

John is still protesting as Sherlock spends a long last moment staring at him.

 _I love you.  I love our life together.  I want more of you, of together, of everything._  He says it all, only in his head.  

He settles for protecting John.  Protecting him from everything, including the bewildering depths of his emotions and the accompanying pain and counterfactuals (losing what-might-have-been is turning out to be almost worse than losing what-was).  He knows he will hold onto these emotions tightly, turning them over in his mind, as he spend the next years -- the rest of his life, if need be -- hunting down Moriarty’s network, protecting John.  

John will never know.

He stares at John.  Memorizes him. (Again.  Never finished.)  Falls.

####  **+1.  Outside John’s flat.**

He’s saying something, but doesn’t know if John hears it.  The punching and accompanying sounds are a bit loud.  He says it over and over, means it, even if it goes unheard.

Sherlock is a bit embarrassed.  (Odd, uncomfortable emotion.  Shouldn’t bother. (Shame that emotions don't seem to be deletable.))  He couldn’t stay away for a lifetime.  Not even to protect John.

He waited three months.

Only three months.  That failure deserves punches.  Down-on-the-ground punches, with John pinning him to the pavement.  (He notices that John is still careful of his nose and teeth.  Is actually punching his shoulders more often than his face, and with more vigor.  But is not avoiding his face entirely.)

The punches hurt less than then new, sterile, not-221B flat that John has been inhabiting, alone.  Or John's appearance: thin, wan, chronically underslept.  

Mycroft had reported as much.  Had told Sherlock that John was getting worse, had sent pictures (carefully, through the proper channels).  Sherlock calculated a 71% chance John would eventually recover (enough to remove fear of self-harm), someday move on (move in with someone new, start building a new life).  (Unacceptable degree of risk that he will not.)  He cannot stand any longer to observe John's decline from afar, or wait to find out what will become of him.

Cannot stand life alone, without John, anymore, either.  (When did John become an integral part of life?  Cannot remember a time after meeting when he was not.)

Sherlock is still murmuring into John's assault.  John is still not hearing.  But he's saying things as well, over and over, a litany mirroring that of his fists.  At first it’s _how could you_.  Then _I hate you_ , and other variants, including _you bastard_.  Then it’s something else.

Sherlock has nearly forgotten that he is also speaking, until their words sync up.   _I love you.  I love you.  I love you._  (Revelation.  More than he had dared to hope.)   _I love you._  (Probably not indicative of desire, not sexual, but that's not the most important, has never been the main point.  The most important bit is being together.  The how of being together is negotiable.) _I love you._

John breaks the chant first, letting out a sob.  He starts to collapse, to fall against Sherlock's chest, but stiffens, holds himself back, hunches his shoulders.  Drips tears down on Sherlock's neck, collarbones.

 _I love you, John,_ he thinks.   _Forgive me.  I'm sorry._  He's so used to holding these sorts of thoughts in.  Instead, he says everything out loud.  "Please.  I tried to stay away.  They were going to kill you.  But I need you, John.  I can't -- I thought I could.  I can't be without you.  I'm sorry."  He stares at John.  Still hurt, still angry.  "Please," he says again.  (Inadequate.)

John just looks at him for a long time.  Scrubs at his eyes with a bloody knuckle.  Looks unhappy.  Sherlock doesn't know how to fix it.  "Never leave me again."  He pauses.  Licks his lips.  "Never lie to me again."

"I love you," Sherlock repeats.  All the words he has right now.  He tries to explain with his intonation, with a touch to John's face.  Finds tears in his own eyes as he does.  (Must revise assessment that he does not cry.  Two data points now.)

John understands.  Doesn't pull back from his touch.  His voice is still firm, though.  "Not even to protect me, Sherlock.  Never.  Again."

Sherlock considers briefly, but he's already made his choice.  The risk of losing John is terrible.  But he is incapable (constitutionally, physically, metaphysically incapable) of staying away from John, even if it puts him at greater risk.  (Besides, John is far from helpless.)  (That may be an excuse, a rationalization for the fact that he is weak and cannot resist John.  (But also very true.))  He nods.  "I promise."

John swallows twice.  Leans in.  Kisses his lips.  

Sherlock is stunned for a moment.  Lies there, experiences it.  Finally remembers to respond, part his lips, kiss back.  His face is bruised, and the kiss hurts gloriously.

Eventually, they pull apart, breathless.  "You bastard," John groans.  But there's affection in his voice once more.  "My life's been a complete wreck, just hell, ever since," he swallows, "the fall.  There are better ways to figure out just how much you care about someone, you know."  Sherlock can generate several dozen better ways in the space of a breath.  Nods.

John exhales slowly.  Smiles, just a little.  "So what do we do now?"

"Finish tracking down the rest of Moriarty's gang.  Especially Moran, his right-hand man.  Very dangerous."

"Right.  Can I shoot him?"

Sherlock smiles.  "By all means.  There's no-one I'd trust more."

"Can I.  Um.  Do this again?"  John presses his lips back to Sherlock's, and this time Sherlock responds immediately, eagerly.  John rewards him with hungry moan-growl, muffled in sound (but not potency) by lips-tongue-teeth.  Sherlock can feel increasing evidence of desire, pressing into his thigh.

"I certainly hope so."  Sherlock manages, finally, voice slightly ragged.  "But perhaps we should relocate."

"Somewhere more comfortable than the pavement?"  John laughs.  Sherlock has missed that sound.  It's a bit rough and unpracticed.  (How long did John go without laughing, during these past months?)

"Well, more comfortable, and less likely to get us arrested, depending."

"Oh, depending."  John's breath catches, and he smiles a brilliant grin, and bites his lip just a little.

"Are you ready to go?"  Sherlock glances questioningly at John's not-221B flat.  

John doesn't even look. Not at the flat, not at his cane, forgotten on the ground.  He helps Sherlock up as he answers, keeps holding his hand after they're standing.  "Oh, God, yes."  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the creators of _BBC Sherlock_ for most of the dialogue. :)
> 
> Thanks to Ariane DeVere for the excellent, thorough, and frequently amusing [Sherlock transcripts](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Farianedevere.livejournal.com%2F36505.html&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNFFMBcDBYue30o8lCOfa_0Qu_yC2A). 
> 
> My Sherlock's voice was influenced in part by Ivy Blossom's [The Progress of Sherlock Holmes](http://www.google.com/url?q=http%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fworks%2F173274%2Fchapters%2F253157&sa=D&sntz=1&usg=AFQjCNHpchuA37-q9uvvXXa30N4xGKxL6g). I've hopefully done something sufficiently different and interesting, but I am very grateful for her inspiring take on the character.
> 
> And thanks especially to my fabulous beta, Lisa E., who caught lots of things that didn't quite work the first time around, and who helped make John's voice far better. She also pointed out that maybe I shouldn’t assume everyone has every moment of _Sherlock_ perfectly etched into memory -- don’t they, though?
> 
> * * * 
> 
> Thanks for reading (and for leaving kudos or comments, if you're so inspired)! If you enjoyed this, here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).


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